


come back with gravity

by bodytoflame



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, God!Percy, Internal Monologue, POV Second Person, add a little... flavor, your lips my lips (apocalypse) au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodytoflame/pseuds/bodytoflame
Summary: an interlude;for starlinks' ylml challenge
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18
Collections: your lips my lips (apocalypse) - "scars" challenge





	come back with gravity

**Author's Note:**

> set in an indeterminate time in the midst of the lovely starlinks' fic [your lips, my lips (apocalypse)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540722)

**"romanticize a quiet life**  
**there's no place like my room**

**but you had to go**  
**i know**  
**i know**  
**i know**  
**like a wave that crashed and melted on the shore"**

**i know the end - phoebe bridgers**

* * *

he kneels behind you, sinking into your mattress, silent as he peels the shirt from your back; red, by design yes, but also by a single spot of blood. you're not completely sure whether it's yours or not — no, there's still adrenaline coursing through your veins, blood pumping along the lines his fingers ghost against your bare skin (there is no pain, just an ache. _of longing?_ ), and there is no other feeling.

the draft from outside chills the exposed half of your back, but his hands are unexplainably warm — you had always associated godliness with a sort of cold; detached — he is anything but. because he's saved your life — he's been here, in your bed — too many times for it not to be personal.

“you can't keep doing this,” he says, voice a faint whisper in your ears.

you know what he means — _we_ can't keep doing _this_.

“ _percy_.”

he doesn't answer you. instead, he traces the scar arcing across your back; all jagged points and lines: “the only way this ends is with you getting hurt.” he knows the stories; knows the fear, every piece of the way it made you feel. it's still sensitive after all these years, both the skin and the very concept of it: the memories it brings of that place, and the _feeling_ ; the heat, and burn, not unlike that of his own touch. isn't it poetic, then, that he's just as — if not more — likely to destroy you? so why does it feel so good?

_would you hate me if i said i don't care?_

you know not what you're still here fighting for, let alone if it's even worth the struggle. but by hell or hades; even the depths of the underworld couldn't pull you in as deep as he has, and oh, is it something wonderful (something to get lost in that isn't your own spiraling thoughts).

adrenaline fades.

there is no other feeling; except, maybe, the light touch of his lips, pressed to the apex of your back, right below the nape of your neck, his hands bracketing your shoulders. you raise your own to meet him, fingertips grazing his knuckles. the concept of peace isn't one you're fiercely acquainted with, but this might be as close as you get in a life such as yours, especially with someone like him.

his hands have traveled nearly every inch of your body, and yours his. somehow, this means more. the little things always do. why is it so hard to admit how much he means to you? because: you want to run with him across the entire universe; to the ends of every earth — each version of yourselves (try, try again, to find ~~a good end~~ , a beautiful end, the end that you _damn well deserve_ after everything). to travel that vast expanse together, and end up back where you started; a naïve, young girl in some sort of love, washed up but on the precipice of something great, and a hardened god afraid of his own emotions. _and you are too._

there is no pain, not today. there is only the ache deep in your hardened muscles, deep down to the bone, of the knowledge that this fight is not over, will _never_ be, as long as the two of you are alive and the world is full of monsters. you're as sure of that fact sure as you know the sun will rise in the morning, and the world will continue to rotate on its axis, with or without you.

the warmth leaves you along with his hands, as the last cracks of sunlight seep through the bare winter skyline. he finds your waist, guiding your shirt off; off to the floor. you expect the energy to change between the two of you without another word — for gentle touch to turn to roaming hands, soft words to wistful pleas — and his arms envelop you, a heavy embrace, but he guides you into a clean t-shirt.

“thank you,” you say, turning around to face him, “for having my back out there.”

“you always have mine,” he says. and it’s all he needs to say; no flourishing sentences or sugar-coated words, just the simple truth. just the essence of what those words actually _mean_ , for him.

in moments like this, things can almost feel _normal_ — whatever that is after twenty-odd years of anything but. and it still is: you're the hero of olympus, and there's a god in your bed (and it's not the first time he's been here). but you swear on all the gods (even him) that it's the most human you'll ever feel.

“i can't stay.”

you know.

you tell him as such.

but knowing doesn't make it any easier.

**Author's Note:**

> so, the world is still wack. what have i been up in the time i haven't posted, you may ask? not much! but i *do* have a veeeeeery long one-shot that's currently at 10k and climbing so 🥴 we'll see how that pans out. i'd love to do some small prompts in the meantime; drop me an ask on tumblr! (lafglonao3)


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